Part 19 (2/2)

But they're the roads where lovers stray, Where wives and husbands walk together And children romp along the way Whenever it is pleasant weather.

The roads of happiness are trod By simple folks and tender-hearted, By gentle folks that wors.h.i.+p G.o.d And want to live their days unparted.

There kindly people stop and talk, Regardless of the chase for money, There, arm in arm, the grown-ups walk And every eye you see is sunny.

The roads of happiness are lined, Not with the friends of royal splendor, But with the loyal friends and kind That do the gentle deeds and tender.

There fame has never brought unrest Nor glory set men's hearts to aching; There unabandoned is life's best For selfish love and money making.

The roads of happiness are those That do not lead to pomp and glory But wind among the joys and woes That make the humble toiler's story.

The roads that oft we used to tread In early days when first we mated, When hearts were light and cheeks were red, And days were not with burdens freighted.

June

June is here, the month of roses, month of brides and month of bees, Weaving garlands for our la.s.sies, whispering love songs in the trees, Painting scenes of gorgeous splendor, canvases no man could brush, Changing scenes from early morning till the sunset's crimson flush.

June is here, the month of blossoms, month of roses white and red, Wet with dew and perfume-laden, nodding wheresoe'er we tread; Come the bees to gather honey, all the lazy afternoon; Flowers and la.s.sies, men and meadows, love alike the month of June.

Month of love and month of suns.h.i.+ne, month of happiness and song, Month that cheers the sad wayfarer as he plods the road along; Spreading out a velvet carpet, green and yellow, for his feet, And affording for his rest hours many a cool and sweet retreat.

When Mother Sleeps

When mother sleeps, a slamming door Disturbs her not at all; A man might walk across the floor Or wander through the hall A pistol shot outside would not Drive slumber from her eyes-- But she is always on the spot The moment baby cries.

The thunder crash she would not hear, Nor shouting in the street; A barking dog, however near, Of sleep can never cheat Dear mother, but I've noticed this To my profound surprise: That always wide-awake she is The moment baby cries.

However weary she may be, Though wrapped in slumber deep, Somehow it always seems to me Her vigil she will keep.

Sound sleeper that she is, I take It in her heart there lies A love that causes her to wake The moment baby cries.

The Weaver

The patter of rain on the roof, The glint of the sun on the rose; Of life, these the warp and the woof, The weaving that everyone knows.

Now grief with its consequent tear, Now joy with its luminous smile; The days are the threads of the year-- Is what I am weaving worth while?

What pattern have I on my loom?

Shall my bit of tapestry please?

Am I working with gray threads of gloom?

Is there faith in the figures I seize?

When my fingers are lifeless and cold, And the threads I no longer can weave Shall there be there for men to behold One sign of the things I believe?

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